


Afterglow

by OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 360MG format, 5 Times, First Times, Like 221b but for Mystrade, M/M, POV Greg Lestrade, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:06:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29487219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella
Summary: 5 times Greg felt the afterglow of Mycroft Holmes.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 46
Kudos: 161





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [englandwouldfalljohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/gifts).



> A new format especially for Mystrade! Englandwouldfalljohn and I were talking and we agreed - 221b is great, but it's a Johnlock thing.
> 
> Mycroft and Greg deserve their own ficlet format.
> 
> Hence: 360MG - 360 words, the last two of which start with M and G in any order.
> 
> ACD (via Sherlock) described Mycroft as 'omniscient' which we've converted to a numeric value of 360 (as in all points of a compass). The M and G are hopefully self-explanatory.

Most kidnappers weren’t so polite, but Greg wasn’t convinced until his phone rang. He stepped under an awning to answer it, eyes still on the random brunette asking him to step into her admittedly nice vehicle.

“Just get in the car,” Sherlock sighed, irritation sharpening his tone. “The boogie-man won’t get you.”

Before Greg could reply the line went dead. He stared at the phone for a second before glancing back. The brunette stood calmly, waiting for him to accept his fate.

Greg sighed, but he did get in.

+++

An hour later he blinked, relieved to recognize the street. The car was already sliding away, roads slick beneath its wheels as he turned. Only two streets over from home. Plenty of time to think about the remarkable person he just met. The whole thing would have been far weirder if Sherlock hadn’t called him; as it was, the redhead seemed to have an edge of irritation when Greg mentioned it.

While mystery was clearly the aim, Greg was quite at home in the seedier parts of London, so he concentrated on the man before him. The expression was familiar, and when he added it to the superior attitude, long limbs, and an accent that screamed ‘public school’, there was only one explanation.

“Ah,” Greg said, grinning when the answer deposited itself into his brain. “You’re Sherlock’s brother, aren’t you?”

The eyebrow flickered at that, the reaction sending warmth twisting through Greg’s belly. For all the similarities to Sherlock, this man was far more polite, and Greg sensed an undercurrent of amusement at their conversational banter. As they talked, something under the pinstripes loosened and Greg knew he’d been cleared of whatever the leggy redhead had suspected. When he was summarily dismissed, disappointment circled in his belly.

Walking home in the drizzle, Greg couldn’t help but wonder if he’d see the man again.

The afterglow sat with him, warming him up as he mounted the stairs to his flat. He still didn’t have a name for the redhead, so he’d have to come up with one. As the key slid into his lock, Greg snorted at his brain’s suggestion.

_Mr. Gorgeous._


	2. The Diogenes Club

Greg knew his flat wasn’t the fanciest, but it was thrown into sharp relief when he had something to compare it to. He’d been in all sorts of places, but Mycroft’s club was different. He wasn’t Detective Inspector here; he was Mycroft Holmes’ guest, and though nobody even so much as inferred he shouldn’t be here, Greg felt it burning in his veins anyway.

Not until a heavy door closed behind them did Greg exhale properly. This space was no less opulent then the corridors he’d seen, but at least he was allowed to talk in here.

“A drink?” Mycroft asked.

“Please,” Greg replied. He was still standing awkwardly by the door, feeling ridiculous. The idea he might do something wrong, sit in the wrong seat, overstep the mark somehow burned and he waited for Mycroft to speak.

“Please, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said when he turned, appearing surprised to see Greg not sitting in one of the seats. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Not used to this kind of place,” Greg said, the admission heating his cheeks as he sat in the nearest armchair.

Mycroft’s eyes were intense as he set a glass on the coaster beside Greg, seating himself opposite with an ease Greg admired. Did Mycroft even notice his surroundings anymore?

“Forgive me,” Mycroft said quietly, “but you seem ill at ease.” He cleared his throat. “Please be assured you are a more worthy resident of these walls than most of the regular inhabitants.”

Greg stared, wondering if Mycroft was taking the piss, but he appeared to be completely serious. “Okay.”

“I am an astute judge of character,” Mycroft added with quiet conviction. “I would not speak without certainty.”

“Thanks,” Greg whispered.

Mycroft didn’t reply, but instead continued their conversation from the car without pause. He was as always, considered and dryly witty, filling Greg’s heart with affirmation and gratitude. As their evening concluded, Greg knew Mycroft’s eyes were assessing, checking he was okay.

Mycroft’s words were very good, Greg thought on the way home, but it was the way he made Greg feel that would remain. Despite their parting, Greg’s chest was warm, tentative affection for Mycroft gently maturing.


	3. Touch

Their pattern was settled now. They would sit quietly and talk, Mycroft managing to buoy Greg’s mood with his considered words and astute observations that made Greg wonder if he ever really relaxed. His opinions were offered with diffidence, as though they might not matter; Greg considered them small insights into Mycroft’s brain. Such glimpses were precious and Greg accepted them carefully, treasuring each.

Until it happened, Greg didn’t realise it was the first time. They’d never touched, not even a brush of skin, but something tonight was different. Mycroft’s words came from a little further away, and when Greg offered to refill their drinks, he nodded absently, though his fingers still held his tumbler, the glass resting on his knee.

Without thinking, Greg reached for it, intending to pour at the small bar. He was still watching Mycroft, wondering if he should ask, not wanting to pry. His fingers wrapped around the glass, but it wasn’t the glass he felt; instead his fingers slipped between Mycroft’s, touching the glass and pressing against Mycroft’s skin at the same time.

His skin was cool, bones pressing against Greg’s knuckles. _Intimate_. The world stuttered along with Greg’s breath. He felt Mycroft’s fingers flex at the contact, the twitch registering at the exact second his eyes snapped to Greg’s.

Neither moved. Neither breathed, as far as Greg could tell; the grey eyes swirled with complicated emotion. Mycroft’s jaw hung loose, his lips parted, though Greg fought not to look directly at them. His heart was thundering, unexpected and fierce.

Slowly, Greg released his fingers, leaving the glass in Mycroft’s grip.

“Perhaps I should go,” he said quietly.

Mycroft held his eyes a few seconds longer. “You would be welcome to stay,” he said.

Greg nodded, relief flowing. “Probably should anyway,” he murmured. “Next week?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied.

Greg’s fingers pulsed with the memory of Mycroft all the way home, his skin changed by their contact. Would it last until they met again? Mycroft’s words implied the moment was not an end to their arrangement, but would things change? Greg couldn’t deny his reaction; Mycroft’s wasn’t disgust, but it was still a great mystery.


	4. Hug

The room at the Club was familiar now. Greg followed Mycroft’s lead and it was only behind this door they relaxed ever so slightly.

Two drinks stretched out and neither offered to pour a third. They would both refuse and it would signal the end of something Greg wasn’t sure he wanted to finish. The more he thought about it, the sadder his empty little flat seemed in comparison.

“Gregory?”

Greg blinked, realising a tear was rolling down his cheek. Mortified, he swiped at it, a pointless gesture to hide its existence.

“I should go,” he muttered, standing, patting his pockets aimlessly.

“Your coat is by the door,” Mycroft said without arguing Greg’s departure.

He stood, leading the way, holding Greg’s coat with understated chivalry. Greg turned, grateful for the moment of respite from kind, nervous grey eyes. When Mycroft’s hands smoothed over his shoulders Greg knew his shuddering breath would be felt through the fabric. Swallowing hard, he turned.

Mycroft stood close, hands still half raised where they’d lifted.

The distance was so small it was impossible for Greg to hide.

“A hug?” Mycroft murmured, widening his arms.

Greg stepped in without a second thought. They fit together easily, Greg breathed deep, fighting not to squeeze tight though he craved the deep pressure Mycroft’s arms offered. His senses confirmed the whispers they’d gathered like wildflowers over the last months, scents and touch and a heartbeat surely elevated. Careful hands pressed into his back, slow breathing surely tempering Mycroft’s reaction, though Greg hated to speculate.

Unexplored territory though this was, the moment after was as natural as any. As though they had finally given into something against which they’d both strained until now, nature rewarding their acceptance of the inevitable. Two sets of arms eased and as the space between their bodies grew, it was comfortable.

“Thank you,” Greg murmured. His body tingled, and they smiled shy farewells, neither breaking the new dynamic. It was fragile but comforting, expanding to fill a space he’d ignored for a long time. Greg knew he would carry the pressure of Mycroft’s body home and into the rest of his week with multiplying gratitude.


	5. Kiss

A click behind him signalled their privacy assured. Greg met Mycroft’s eyes and they bore the same combination he felt churning in his belly.

Desire. Apprehension. Fear.

Fragile determination flickered, and Greg leaned against the door, waiting. Silence roared in his ears, punctuated only by his heartbeat as Mycroft did not move for an agonizing moment.

When he spoke, Greg couldn’t believe how steady his voice sounded.

“Mycroft,” he murmured, “you’re a long way away.”

An invitation, barely insinuated yet clear enough if it was what Mycroft wanted to hear, Greg hoped. His own fear prevented more explicit words, and he bit his lip, waiting.

The carpet absorbed the noise of Mycroft’s footsteps. He eased closer, the swish of fabric somehow as erotic as a caress until his hands reached up, easing buttons loose, slipping Greg’s coat from his shoulders, barely touching, the fire running along Greg’s skin anyway.

Coat gone, Mycroft’s hands returned, skimming down Greg’s arms, light enough to raise goose-bumps under layers of fabric. They stopped before skin met, and Greg shivered, the anticipation skittering uncomfortably over the backs of his hands.

Too close now for words or pretence, Greg allowed previously harnessed eyes to roam over Mycroft’s face, revelling in unexamined details. He felt faint pressure of fingertips against his forearm and reached, drinking in reaction as fingers slid together with undeniable deliberate firmness.

This time the mix was different, slate grey instead of silver.

Surprise. Desire. Determination.

They swayed, drawn together as resistance finally lowered enough to allow motion. The kiss was chaste, a press of lips that branded Greg as clearly as if Mycroft was a white-hot iron direct from the forge. Surging heat tightened tendons involuntarily, squeezing fingers and ribs, a gasp escaping before anyone could prevent it.

The sound, louder than anything since Greg’s words, broke their physical connection.

No matter, Greg thought, eyes finally opening. He could feel the shape of Mycroft still, and the afterglow was integrated immediately into his being, solid and intrinsic. The tangle of their souls was inextricable, and from the gentle smile on Mycroft’s face, he was no more likely to break it than Greg.

_‘Mazing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- It's a stretch, sure, but would we really call it cheating? No? Great.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this little series - I find short word limits a challenge because I'm usually all about more words than less, but the practice of editing is never wasted and I now have a wider range of 'g' and 'm' based vocabulary!
> 
> Find @englandwouldfalljohn and @oneblueumbrella on tw*tter for more writing and Mystrade loveliness. Thank you all for reading or new venture!

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to join us, we're using the tag '360MG format' and we'd love to see your contributions to this new ficlet format!


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